The Ghost:A Gallagher Girl Story
by Mitsuki10191
Summary: A story about a new Gallagher Girl, Esmeralda Medinas, known as the Ghost.  The Gallagher Girls idea is not mine, but the property of Ally Carter.  All rights go expressly to her.
1. Chapter 1

She slipped stealthily through the dark hallways, alone but for her shadow, silent and unnoticed. Thought it was long past midnight, her eyes were dark and alert, despite the fact that she knew no one would be looking for her. And even if they were, they would never find her. She had been trained, after all, to not just blend into her surroundings, but to disappear completely.

Within the hallowed halls of Gallagher Academy, Esmeralda Medina was referred to-by the few who realized she existed-as the Ghost. Oh, she was most certainly alive, with a beating heart and warm skin. But here, amidst a school full of future spies and agents, she had chosen the path of the ghost operative.

Ghost operative were never seen, never heard, never sensed, unless they wanted to be. They flitted in and out of existence, taking on different names, different lives, at the drop of a hat. It wasn't a popular path, or an easy one. A Ghost operative could make no permanent ties, could have no qualms when it came to lying. Relationships were to be avoided at all costs, attachments strictly banned. For these reasons, and so many more, Gallagher Academy only produced around two or three Ghost operatives a decade. At the moment, Esmeralda was the only one. And that was just fine with her.

She knew, quite well, that the Headmistress' daughter Cameron was known as the Chameleon, for her skills at blending in with the crowd, for just becoming another face amidst a sea of faces. And that was an enviable skill as well. But it wasn't the life for Esmeralda. The Chameleon worked with partners, with fellow students in a unit. And the Chameleon, as it had become so obvious over the past few months, was capable of being seen.

None of this was the case for Esmeralda. She worked alone, completely so, with the assignment in her head and a communication device in her ear that connected her to Mr. Solomon. It had been he, after all, who had seen to her training since she'd entered the Academy. Balancing the Chameleon and the Ghost, she mused, couldn't have been easy, but he'd done quite well, really.

With a quiet hum in her throat, Esmeralda stopped at a window, three to the right of the suit of armor in the West Wing. Perhaps the Chameleon thought she knew where all the secret tunnels were inside the Academy. But she'd be wrong. Her face completely blank, her movements unhurried, she ran a finger over the edge of the glass pane in the window, her nail slipping between glass and plastic. No one who didn't know exactly where it was would have ever noticed the tiny catch three quarters of the way down the window.

But Esmeralda knew where it was, and her nail caught it, pushing it down with an inaudible click. Silently, the wall of stone beside the window slid aside, revealing a hidden entrance that she slipped through without hesitation, seeming not to notice the thick cobwebs or the heavy chill of the hidden corridor. The wall slid silently back into place as she passed through, and Esmeralda found herself incased in a world of absolute black.

Still, she walked confidently through the inky blackness, going deeper and deeper underground. She had traveled this path many times before, after all, and was no stranger to the dark. It was a long walk, but she was fit, her thin, subtly muscled body used to climbing rock walls or crawling through vents for hours. Had anyone ever bothered to ask Mr. Solomon about the resident Ghost, he might have told them she had the looks of the gypsy she was named after, with olive toned skin and smoky gray eyes. Her mass of curling black hair was most often pulled back, as it got in the way. But even she, who downplayed her looks as much as possible day after day, had some vanity, and refrained from cutting it to a shorter length.

She used no disguises when on the job, relying on lifelong training to make her unseen, even if someone happened to be staring right at her. She had been to countless countries, had carried countless names and manufactured backgrounds. She could, if necessary, stand in a room with only one other person and have them thinking they were completely alone. After graduation, she was guaranteed a position with the United States government, such was her skill.

The passageway got even colder, and using that as a signal, she turned to the left, using a fingertip grazing along the wall to guide her. She began walking down another hallway, content knowing her short journey was almost over. She really had Cammie to thank, she mused to herself. With so many people focused on the Headmistress's daughter, no one gave a passing thought to the Ghost. Not that they had in the first place, but still.

She stopped abruptly, her hand reaching out and wrapping around a familiar knob. Twisting it hard, she rolled her eyes at the squeak it emitted, and then wrenched open the door attached to it, a burst of humid air escaping out into the cold hallway. As she walked inside this secret room, her own little hideaway, she reached out, flicked on the single bare bulb that hung from the low ceiling. Letting the door swing shut behind her, she breathed in the scent of dust and moisture, and felt more at home here than any cozy dorm room.

For here, amidst the rock walls and lonely light bulb were all her secrets that no one, not even Mr. Solomon, knew about. The girl who was forbidden to form attachments of any sort, who had chosen the life of having no life at all, had hoarded her memories in this one room, keeping them safe from the rest of the world.

Photos covered the walls, pictures of popular monuments, like the Washington Tower, the Eiffel Tower, and the Spanish Steps. But there were other pictures, pictures that held no meaning to anyone but her, of crowds of people, of market plazas and crowded sidewalks. She knew, without looking, that the picture on the south wall, three to the left and four from the bottom, was a picture of a fountain in Italy. She'd been Thomasina Rinaldi then, and had earned extra credit for retrieving four coins from the middle of the fountain in the middle of the afternoon with absolutely no one noticing. Those coins were currently in a glass box on a shelf on the west wall.

And there, dangling from the ceiling by a wire was a small replica of a fishing boat, retrieved from a Grecian boat half a mile out to sea. No one had seen her get on or off, and extra credit had been achieved once more. She had all these and many other souvenirs from her assignments, secreted away in this chamber that held all the memories she wasn't allowed to have. Only when she came here, to this room, did she allow herself to remember the places she'd been, the things she'd done.

And only in this room did she ever admit, if only to herself, that once, just once, someone had spotted the Ghost when she hadn't wanted to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes had looked like an angry sea. That was the first thought Esmeralda ever had when she allowed herself to remember the single time in her life when she'd slipped up. The boy-for he'd been barely older than her, not yet old enough to be truly a man-had had dark, cool eyes the color of an ocean's thrashing waters during a storm. A dark, piercing blue they'd been, just a few flecks of gray and green making themselves known when they narrowed in anger or annoyance.

She had been doing her job, and doing it more than well. She had been in the middle of Mardi Gras for three days, with no one realizing she existed for even an instant. At the moment, she'd been relating with the main character from 'The Princess Diaries', in the scene where she was so 'invisible' that someone sat on her. It hadn't gone quite that far, but it was as though she were simply on a different plane than the rest of humanity, shifting between them without so much as disturbing the air.

Her mission had been a simple one. Simply nip the Mardi Gras beads from the necks of seven sober people without anyone noticing. Though it may have seemed quite pointless, she knew it was good practice. Things worth stealing weren't always courteous enough to be locked away in some empty, secluded room. Though, had they been, she was perfectly capable of shutting down all security and getting around all trip wires, lasers, or whatever else was thrown at her. In this case, however, none of that had been necessary, and she'd strolled easily through New Orleans, three of the seven strands of beads already around her own neck.

It was then, as she'd stopped to watch a parade tramp through the street, when she'd felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A warning, she'd known then, that all was not as well as it seemed here. She hadn't moved a muscle, merely glancing nonchalantly around, thinking perhaps it was somebody slipping through the crowd lifting wallets, or a police officer strolling through the crowd.

But then she'd glanced to her left, pretending to be focused on the man walking on stilts in the parade. And she'd known it was no wallet snatcher or police officer that had her senses on high alert. There, amidst a crowd of drunks and partiers, one pair of eyes locked directly on hers, intense blue staring into smoky gray. Automatically she'd filed away the rest of his facial features.

Skin tanned to a light brown, straight black hair, just a little too long, falling over his ears, a squared jaw covered with a bit of dark stubble. An attractive face, she'd thought despite the circumstances, and full lips had been curved into an arrogant smirk, one eye brow cocked as he stared at her.

She'd been seen. The realization came with a jolt, and with the shock, a fear. No civilian, after all, could have locked their attention on the Ghost. Only someone highly trained, highly skilled, could've ever hoped to spot her. Her gaze latched onto his left ear, where three small silver hoops ran in a line on his lobe. Her blood had run cold, though her facial expression had remained blank.

Creed. Creed had found her. Oh, that wasn't his name. She'd had no clue who this particular individual was. But it became all too clear that this boy who saw the Ghost was a member of Creed. And no, absolutely no agent ever, ever wanted to find themselves staring down a member of Creed. Creed was, and always had been, a group of…elite rogues would be the best term. The top members were recruited at an early age, and trained as thoroughly as any Gallagher Girl was. Oh, technically they were on the same side as the Academy and the US Government. But they followed no rule book, dishing out their brand of 'justice' however they saw fit. Agents were merciless, without morals or a conscience. And they were always, always recruiting.

Their version of recruiting, of course, was more like a draft. You didn't have much of a choice. A member of Creed was sent out, hunting down the newest agent in training that had been marked for recruitment. Any who resisted either learned quickly or were never seen again. These recruiters, the best trackers Creed had, were marked by three silver rings in their left ear.

And there, not twenty feet from her, was a Creed recruiter, still staring at her with a smug gleam in his eyes. Pretending her pulse wasn't racing, she'd calmly reached into her pocket, pulling out a camera. With a steady hand, she'd lifted it, caught his face in the frame. And snapped a picture.

Esmeralda studied that picture now in the secret chamber, frowning down at the darkly handsome face, drawing in a breath when she ran a fingertip over the three earrings captured in the photo.

Oh, it had been all too easy to get lost in the crowd again, of course. Only a moment, just a blink on his part, and she'd been gone. But that did not, absolutely did not change the fact that a Creed recruiter had come looking for her. That meant, all too clearly, that this organization, this group of rogue agents, knew that she existed. Perhaps they didn't know she was a Gallagher Girl, or her real name, but they knew she existed. Somehow, one of their recruiters had found her in New Orleans. And he'd seen her, when she'd been trying to be invisible.

That wasn't to say, of course, that she'd failed the mission. She glanced over to a hook on the wall, her lips curving a bit as she studied the seven strands of brightly colored beads that hung there. The mission had been completed, and she had said nothing, not a word to Mr. Solomon about the Creed recruiter.

To admit that, after all, would have been admitting failure. And Esmeralda Medina never, ever failed.


	3. Chapter 3

Samuel Tanner never, ever failed. It simply was not in his nature to accept anything than absolute success. At seventeen, he had more patience, more instinct than a man three times his age. It was what made him, undoubtedly, the best tracker in Creed. Who else, he thought with a smirk, could've tracked down the ever-so-elusive agent known only as the Ghost?

Oh, it hadn't been easy. He wasn't saying that at all. It had taken months of information gathering, of following false leads and spending countless hours searching cities all over the world. But he'd done it. And that was all that mattered. For now, at least.

With some frustration, he bent over the pieces of paper spread out on the desk in the hotel room he'd checked into with a false ID. A small stack of papers, a few pictures, and pages of notes was all that made up the file on the Ghost.

A disappearing gypsy was what she was, one who'd been spotted maybe three times several years back, all sporadic, blurry sightings. And then, for the longest time, no one had seen her at all. But some people had seen, after the fact, just what she was capable of. And it was those capabilities, those skills, which made her a prime recruit for Creed. And they would have her. Of that, Sam had no doubt. He would get her, one way or another, no matter what.

For years, since he'd first been recruited into Creed and been trained as a tracker, he'd had his sights set on the elusive Ghost. She'd gone by many names, none of which, he was sure, was her real one. She had been bopping all around the globe, stealing classified information one minutes, quarters from a public fountain the next. There was no rhyme or reason to her jobs, no system or pattern that had ever been detected.

She-for they had finally determined that the Ghost was definitely a she-simply vanished off the face of the earth for months at a time, popping back up without notice. And then, the most frustrating of all, she would drift unnoticed through society, and then simply fade away once her purpose had been fulfilled.

She was young, younger than him, and that pissed him off as well. He pulled out one picture of her, a zoomed in close up of her face that was grainy at best. But it was impossible to miss the youth in her face. A face, he admitted, that reminded him of bonfires and secret forests. And that, he reminded himself as he read through the frustratingly brief report of a sighting in France, had nothing to do with the fact that she was still out there somewhere. A girl, no older than sixteen, of average height and build, who he'd finally tracked down after years and years of searching.

And he hadn't caught her, not there amidst the festivities of Mardi Gras, because, with only a blink, she had vanished in thin air. And he'd been left with nothing but a memory of smoky gray eyes and colored beads around a slender throat.

The laptop at his elbow beeped suddenly, signaling an incoming email, and he shifted over to it, pushing a few keys to bring up the newest information. There was a document attached to it, and with a curious hum in his throat he opened it. And, studying it, he began to smile, and then to laugh.

Punching a few buttons on the computer, the document printed out, and he was still laughing as he held in his hands a picture of the Ghost herself, standing amidst a group of girls, almost invisible among them, dressed in the fancy uniform of Gallagher Academy.

So, he mused, thoroughly pleased with the world in general, he was dealing with a little Gallagher Girl. Now that, he thought, was going to make things plenty interesting indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Now Zeldie," Only years of a close student-teacher arrangement had Esmeralda permitting Mr. Solomon to call her by such a nickname. Nicknames, after all, meant bonds, connections. And those, of course, were forbidden. But there was always the exception, and Joe Solomon had always been the exception.

"With all due respect, Mr. Solomon, I really believe we should just drop the subject. I've already made my wishes quite clear." She sat across from him in his office, her eyes latched calmly on his, emotionless gray orbs. She watched his frown deepen, and it was concern she saw in his eyes, unwanted and unnecessary.

"Zeldie, this is your father we're talking about. It would not be a breach of cover to attend his funeral. No one even knows you're his daughter." He spoke in a low tone, keeping his voice even and reasonable.

Though her heart ached, she sat back calmly in her chair, crossing her legs so that the material of her plaid skirt shifted a bit. "For all intents and purposes, Mr. Solomon, both of my parents died the day I entered this institution. I mourned for the both of them years ago. If you remember, I did not attend my mother's funeral either when she passed. I don't find it necessary to waste my energies by grieving twice for my father either."

How cool she sounded, she thought, and held fast to the vow she'd made so many years ago, to never show weakness in front of another. Weakness, after all, was what got you captured and killed. As she sat there, Mr. Solomon studied her, his eyes boring into hers. In this Academy, he was the only one who'd ever seen her, really seen her. And he was the one who'd taught her all there was to know about becoming invisible. Her mentor, really, and she disliked refusing him anything. But on this, she would stand firm.

She'd been called in early that morning to the Headmistress's office, two days after her trip down to the secret chamber. She'd been told, as gently as possible, that her father, an undercover agent who'd been stationed for the past two years in England, had been killed. Slaughtered, she'd found out from the files she'd read through-not necessarily legally-by a fellow agent who'd turned to the other side. Later, she thought, later, despite what she said, she would grieve.

She would grieve for the man who'd lifted her up onto his shoulders and run around the yard, who'd tossed her high in the air until she squealed with delight, confident his hands would be there to catch her. She would grieve for the father who'd taught her how to walk, how to ride a bike, the man who had taught her how to shoot her first gun, how to pick a lock in under a minute. She would weep-yes, even Ghosts wept-for the man who had read her fairy tales at bedtime and had taught her how to speak six different languages.

Yes, she would grieve for him. But not now, not in front of the man who'd taught her that any memories, any weakness, could be used as a weapon. And she refused to be used.

While she thought this, Joe Solomon studied his young pupil, remembered when she'd been a first year student. So quiet compared to the rest, always listening, never speaking, those gray eyes taking in everything, storing top secret information in her head the way others stored phone numbers. Even then she had moved silently, ghosting in and out of rooms in the blink of an eye. Oh, she'd been a bit rough yet, but it had been apparent she had the talent to walk a path few chose.

And it had shocked him, how easily she'd cast aside her past, cutting off all ties, doing away with all attachments. If he hadn't known any better, he might have said she had a heart of stone. But as her trainer, he did know better. Esmeralda Medina made an outstanding Ghost, but her heart still beat. Her emotions may be on lockdown, but they were still very much there. She had excelled at each and every lesson, quickly learning the subtle tricks that went along with being invisible in plain sight.

He was proud of her, and whenever he told her so, she always simply nodded, her lips curving just the slightest bit. And he was proud of her, proud of her progress, her accomplishments. Already she was being scouted by the government, and though she wouldn't be happy about, he knew that 'The Ghost' was a name spoken with a bit of reverence in certain circles. The protégée, some called her, but most called her simply a mystery. Young Zeldie, after all, was a girl valued her privacy.

It was at times like this, however, that he worried about her. "You know, Esmeralda…There is such a thing as too much training. Controlling your emotions does not mean denying them. Repressing things such as grief, anger…Eventually it builds up, and can have devastating effects when it eventually explodes." He knew he was fighting a losing battle when she merely smiled, that slight curving of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.

"You don't have to worry. I would never do anything to jeopardize my training. Those feelings you speak of, perhaps I am feeling them now. But by tomorrow, they'll be gone. It doesn't do to have thoughts of the past, after all. If you'll excuse me, I'm a bit tired. I believe I'll take a turn around the grounds." She said, and at Mr. Solomon's nod, she stood, offering him another half-smile before she turned to leave.

"Oh, and Zeldie?" She turned at the door, her hand on the knob. "It's not your training I'm worried about."

She nodded, her face blank, and left his office, shutting the door quietly behind her. He was worried about her. She knew it, and couldn't say she cared for it. She was no one's responsibility. Not her mother's, not her father's, and not Mr. Solomon's. Walking at a careless pace, she made her way outside, breathing in the fresh air. It was dusk now, the sun setting beautifully, amidst a mass of color. Beautiful, she mused, and reached absently for the camera she kept in the pocket of her skirt.

Just as she pushed the button to take the picture, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck quiver, and she slowly lowered the camera. Her face blank, she began walking again, rounding the corner of the school. As soon as she did, she put her back to the wall, her ear cocked for any abnormal sound. She almost jolted when she heard a laugh, and then cursed herself when she saw a trio of first year students giggling as they meandered along the path behind the school.

Paranoid, Esmeralda thought, shaking her head in disgust. Now she was getting paranoid just because a Creed recruiter had caught a glimpse of her hundreds of miles away. Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her hair in a rare outward sign of agitation. Perhaps the grief was closer to the surface than she thought. That must be why she was so jumpy inside one of the most secure estates in the world.

Sighing, she decided now was as good a time as any to take a trip down memory lane. This time, it would be in memory of her father. Since it was still reasonably early, the Ghost used her considerable skills to open up and close a secret panel in a hall where students still walked and chatted about God knew what. And if she felt a twinge or two of unease, as though she were being watched as she walked down the dark, cool tunnel, then she told herself it was just her paranoid imagination. She'd get over it when the sun rose. After all, tomorrow was a new day. Today's memories would have no place in it.


	5. Chapter 5

Hours later, in the dead of night, Esmeralda made her way to her room. She had no roommates to worry about, no friends who would've come knocking and noticed her missing. In this case, she was highly grateful for that, as this meant there would be none to witness the after effects of the weeping spell she'd indulged in. At the moment, her eyes were rimmed with red, her head throbbing. She despised crying. It had always seemed so weak and pointless to her. Just as the memories she carried of a man who was now dead were equally pointless. They were nothing but a burden, a weakness.

Because they were, as she lay in bed, she stared up at the dark ceiling, mentally sifting all her memories of her father-for those of her mother had been gone for some time-into one giant file. And then she pictured stuffing that file into a giant paper shredder. As the 'file' in her head was destroyed, she felt the familiar ache in her heart that always came with ripping a part of herself out, filling the hole it left with facts and lessons that would be useful to future missions. That was why she had her pictures. Memories could be easily disposed of, repressed until they were practically nonexistent. But should information pertaining to such a memory be necessary, all she had to do was look at a picture, and every memory, every bit of information on that particular subject would come flooding back. And if it hurt, just a bit, to lock it all away again afterwards, well…it was the path she'd chosen.

When she was satisfied that no memories of her father would come back to her without warning, she rolled onto her stomach, her favored sleeping position. Upon entering the room, she'd changed into her favored sleepwear, a tank top and a small pair of faded shorts. In private, she was all about comfort, and in her world, that was it. With her mind cleared, it took no effort to drop into sleep. She slept as silently as she moved, not moving a muscle or making a sound. If not for the slight rise and fall of her breathing, one might assume she was dead. Even in sleep, it seemed, she remained the Ghost.

But tonight, despite her efforts, she did not sleep peacefully. Images flashed in her head, not of her father, but of a strange, dangerous face dominated by piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right at her, right into her, seeing her in a way that no one had a right to. And when the stranger's lips curved into a smirk, his eyebrow quirking up a bit and his head tilting to the side, the three silver hoops in his left ear gleamed in the moonlight.

He reached out to her, running a finger boldly down her cheek, to the tip of her chin, where it lingered for a moment, tilting her face up. And all at once that touch became hard and hurtful, his hand gripping her chin painfully, hard enough to leave bruises. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, his mouth next to her ear. And when he spoke, when he whispered in her ear, he said only '_Esmeralda_.'

With a jolt, Esmeralda sprung up in bed, pushing herself up with her elbows since her face had been buried in the pillow. Her heart racing, she pulled in a quick, ragged breath, her gaze darting to every corner of the room. It had been real, so real. She could have sworn she'd felt the warmth of his breath in her ear, could swear her cheek still tingled where he'd touched it. Rubbing at her face, her gaze moved to the window, and she shivered a bit when she saw it open, the curtains fluttering a bit in the night breeze.

Cursing under her breath, she pushed out of bed, trudging over to the window and snapping it closed, drawing the curtains over it to block the moonlight that was making patterns on her floor. She often left it open during the day to keep the room from smelling musty. She'd obviously forgotten to close it after entering the room, that's all. It annoyed her that, even for an instant, she'd thought that the Creed recruiter might have tracked her down here. It was impossible. She was completely protected, her identity secure. There was no way some smug, earring-wearing bastard would ever be able to set foot inside the Academy, much less find his way in through a third story window.

Shaking her head, she flipped the lock on the window, running her hands through her long fall of thick, dark hair before she turned back to the bed. Perhaps if she'd noticed the fingerprint smudge on the other side of the window pane that night, she might not have gone back to sleep that night. But because she convinced herself she was simply paranoid and overtired, she wasn't quite as observant as she usually was.

But there was one person within the Academy who had never been more observant, more focused on their goal. After all, even one moment of a lapse in concentration could get you killed when you'd managed to sneak into one of the most guarded estates in the world. But it would be worth it, they knew. It would be so very, very worth it. And it would pay off very, very soon.


	6. Chapter 6

Esmeralda gulped down water from one of the many bottles she kept around, letting the water from the shower beat down on her back at the same time. Multi-tasking, in her opinion, was a form of art, and she was a master. She'd returned from a session with Mr. Solomon minutes ago, with the sun just beginning to set. There had been no mission today, only strict physical training that had stretched her lean muscles and tested her endurance.

She was, much to her and Mr. Solomon's satisfaction, quite physically fit. If there was one thing Esmeralda understood completely, it was discipline. Nowhere was this more evident than when it came to her own body maintenance. She exercised and worked out religiously, though not so much that it became a pattern-patterns and predictability went hand in hand, after all-and made a point of eating right and keeping her mind stimulated. All that, added to a natural metabolism, made for an ideal body for an agent who was constantly on the move.

Tossing the empty water bottle out of the shower, she stretched that body beneath the beating spray, the searing hot water steaming up the tiny bathroom. Any fatigue drained away with the water, and she tilted her head back, letting the water hit her face, washing away dirt and sweat and grime. She was due back in Mr. Solomon's office in an hour for a briefing of a new extra credit assignment. But that was in an hour, and right now she was content to linger beneath the spray, her skin warm and wonderfully clean. Not something she took for granted, seeing as she'd spent many a day and night with her skin dotted with anything from dust and dirt to sewer water and blood.

When she finally reluctantly stepped out of the shower, she made quick work of drying her hair, pinning it back as she dressed. Seeing as she was going out on a mission tonight-for Mr. Solomon had already assured her it would be tonight-she wore not her uniform, but her street clothes. Bleached blue jeans almost white at the stress points were pulled on, along with reliable, off brand sneakers and a faded pine green tee shirt. Her hair tied back, she dumped her dirty clothes in the hamper, stretching her arms above her head in the middle of her room.

Yawning once, she turned towards the door, and then stopped when she spotted the glint of metal on her desk. Frowning, she strode over, picked up a Spanish gold coin, and that frown deepened. This was from her chamber beneath the school. Had she picked it up, as she did from time to time, and accidentally taken it with her? Annoyed that she'd apparently slipped up again-this wasn't like her-she pocketed the coin, deciding to put it back in its rightful place before going to see Mr. Solomon.

Sighing, she went about the not-so-complicated task of moving unnoticed through the halls, once again slipping through the secret passageway without alerting anyone. Her warm skin chilled a bit in the cool tunnel, had her slipping her hands in her pockets as she strolled through the pitch black, relying on memory. As she pulled open the heavy door to the chamber, she slipped the Spanish coin into her hand, shaking her head as she flipped on the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

But even as she shut the door behind her, she knew it was wrong. It was all wrong. But her hand had just started to wrap around the handle of the blade she always carried at her side when she felt another blade at her own throat, the cool metal heating against her flesh as a single drop of blood ran down the side of her neck.

And as she stared into the face from her dreams, from her nightmares, she almost laughed. So, she wasn't paranoid after all. That was the last thought she had before something smashed hard into the side of her head. The last thing she saw before everything went black again was the glint of the light off of three silver hoop earrings, and a smug, triumphant grin.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam Tanner tilted back in the hard backed chair, studying the pictures covering the walls of the chamber. It had been the right move, trailing her here that first night. It was obvious that no one else was aware that the tunnel existed, much less this room. While he'd been waiting for her to come down-and he'd known she would, once he'd planted that coin in her room-he'd taken his time, examining her little souvenirs, trying to find out just what made Esmeralda Medina-which, he'd found out, was her actual real name-tick, what exactly was inside her that made her The Ghost.

It was obvious, at least to him, that this was her memory chamber. Many Ghost Operatives had them, though it went against protocol. Liabilities, after all, these little pieces of sentiment, the memories and information attached to them. He'd seen two other rooms such as this during his time with Creed, but none so detailed as this. There were pictures here he was sure only she understood, of empty cracked sidewalks and potted plants on a terrace. He was also sure that, should he put one of those pictures in front of her face, she would know, just with that image for mental stimulation, each and every detail of whatever mission she'd been on during the time that picture had been taken.

That kind of memory, the access to such information, was a powerful thing. Not many could pull it off, which was why there were very few active Ghost Operatives. Esmeralda Medina was, quite simply, the best of this generation of Ghost Operatives. The name 'The Ghost' was whispered reverently in some circles, said with envy or disgust, depending on what side you were on. Imagine the world's surprise, Sam mused, if the population knew that the one human they feared so much was a teenage girl who looked more suited to dancing around a camp fire than flitting around the world gathering information and objects.

The operative in question was currently flat on her back on the center table in the middle of the room, which he'd cleared ahead of time of all souvenirs and knick-knacks. Forward thinking, he knew, was the key here, at least with this one. Because it was, he'd made sure to double knot the ropes around her wrists and ankles, which were tied to the legs of the tables. The blade she'd been carrying was tucked safely in his waistband, to be admired later, for it was surely a fine blade.

He was, in his opinion, a genius. Who, after all, would think to look below the school, in an unknown, secret chamber, for a missing student? Oh, he imagined once word got out that The Ghost had disappeared, operatives all over the world would be combing over every inch of the estate, and beyond that. Eventually, of course, he would take her from here and get her to Creed Headquarters, where his superiors were waiting. But for now, there was no problem simply staying here, where the walls were so thick that no one would ever, ever hear anybody scream.

He was sorry he'd had to hit her. She was such a pretty little thing, once you realized that she was trying very hard to downplay her looks. And that, in his opinion-of which he had many-was yet another of the skills that made her ever so formidable. Any woman, with a bit of time, could make themselves look beautiful. But it took a special kind of skill to-without the use of cosmetics or tools-make one's self fade into the background, a ghost among mortals. It was all, he decided, in the way you walked, the way you talked-or didn't talk, the expressions on your face. It took the perfect combination, one she had obviously mastered.

There was no doubt in his mind that he was going to have some fun with this one. It would take days, maybe weeks, depending, to reach Headquarters, which was placed not-so-conveniently out of state. Transporting a fighting female notorious for disappearing in an instant over five hundred miles…It was suicide mission, he decided. Unless, of course, you were Samuel Ian Tanner. Then, of course, it was a mission that was just up your alley.


	8. Chapter 8

Esmeralda came awake slowly, purely out of habit, her breathing pattern never changing, her body remaining as still as ever. There was an ache in her head that confused her for a bit, and a stiffness in her neck that annoyed her.

But all that was before she registered the feel of coarse rope around her wrists and ankles, before she felt the cold chill in the air that she'd only ever felt in one place within the Academy. That was before she opened her eyes, just a bit, and saw the model boat hanging from the ceiling by a thin wire.

"How did you find me?" She asked calmly, closing her eyes again and there was silence for a moment before she heard a chuckle, and the sound of chair legs hitting the ground.

"You could at least act surprised. Do you realize how hard it was to track you down, Zeldie?" Her lips dipped into a frown at the casual way he said her nickname, but she said nothing else, willing her pulse to stay even, her mind to stay clear.

"Ah, right, you asked me a question. I suppose I can answer it. You see, I saw your face, Zeldie. And me, I've got a memory for faces. So I reconstructed your face on this handy computer program, sent it to a colleague of mine. And the thing about towns and cities like this, they have cameras everywhere, at traffic lights and ATM machines, on buildings and light poles. All we had to do was take the footage from all those things-and there were tons-and find you. Not that it was easy, mind you. But then, a few days ago, that colleague of mine sent me a picture, of cute little Esmeralda Medina, standing at a crosswalk and wearing a Gallagher Girl uniform. You may be able to hide from the rest of the world, sweetheart, but you can't hide from the camera. Well, I bet you actually could, couldn't you?" He laughed again, and she remained motionless as he traced a finger down her cheek, hot against cold.

"Come on, Zeldie, don't you want to know who I am?" He asked after a moment, the laughter still in his voice as he sat on the edge of the table. Her voice, he mused, matched the look of her, smoky and mysterious. She opened her eyes then, and they were the same as he remembered, a deep, swirling gray that tried to draw him in.

"My name is Esmeralda. And I know who you are. I have no intention of working for Creed." She saw him pause at that, and his eyes lit in appreciation.

"You know, I knew you were smart. God knows you're skilled. You're wasting your time here, playing school girl. Getting, what, extra credit or something for stealing government info?" At her bland look, he tossed his head back and laughed. "You do! It's extra credit! God, that's just great. That's really great." The movement had sent his earrings swinging, and when he saw her attention was focused on them, he nodded, his lips curving.

"Ah, you recognized the earrings. How did you know that was one of our symbols?" He asked, and she arched a brow, a superior look that she somehow managed to pull off even tied to a table.

"Right, right, I forgot. You're The Ghost. There's not much you can't find out. That's why we want you. You're the best, no question. And Creed is made up of the very best. But you know that, don't you?" He asked, and he could almost see the data scroll in her eyes as she kept staring at the earrings.

"Creed is composed of rogue agents and operatives, many, if not most of whom were considered to be the top in their respective fields. A percentage of those operatives were suspected of having been forced into joining, threatened or bribed as was necessary. Those who refuse to take a position in Creed once it is offered to them are disposed of, no exceptions. The organization itself spans over five continents, though its main Headquarters is here, within the US. Somewhere, though exact coordinates have yet to be obtained, in the vicinity of North Carolina." At this, she saw his eyes narrow, and he leaned over, his face inches from hers.

"Where did you get that information?" He demanded, and her lips curved in a humorless smile.

"Extra credit," Was her reply, and he stared at her, his eyes dark and intense, for a long moment before he scoffed, backing away and jumping off the table to stand over her.

"It seems we didn't give you enough credit. You'll tell me your sources eventually, you know. I can be very…persuasive." He said, and she met his stare head-on. It was no secret, really, but damned if she would tell him a thing. She wondered how this tracker would react if he knew that The Ghost had already played his role, months before, and had tracked down two Creed members; that she, too, could be very persuasive when it suited her. They'd told her what she'd wanted to know, even if they hadn't known exactly where to find the main Headquarters. All the information had been reported, and then 'forgotten', stuffed forever in a file in her brain. And then no one had ever seen either of the Creed agents again.

"Keeping me here was quite foolish, you know. I was expected in class, and when I don't appear, someone will come looking for me. They'll be searching the whole school thoroughly." When he merely smiled again, she sighed mentally, turning her wrists a bit in the bonds.

"Yes, they'll search. There'll be quite a panic, I think, when they realize, if they haven't already, that The Ghost has made an unscheduled disappearance. But they won't find us here. No one knows about this place but you and me. We wouldn't be here otherwise. I'm not quite as foolish as you think I am, Zeldie."

Personally, she considered him to be her own personal anti-Christ. There was no way; absolutely no way she was going to join Creed's ranks. It was completely out of the question, and against everything she'd ever stood for-and when you were constantly switching identities you stood for many things. So, besides abandoning all her morals and beliefs, she had two options.

Option 1: Escape the Creed recruiter's 'evil clutches' (if you wanted to be dramatic about it)

Or,

Option 2: Let Creed 'dispose' of her.

After a few moments of considering the pros and cons of both options, she decided that escape was definitely the preferable option. And she was, after all, trained at being invisible. And it was quite easy for someone who was invisible to escape the notice of a single man with earrings dangling from his ear. Now the only question was: how?


	9. Chapter 9

At the end of a hall of dorm rooms, Joe Solomon stood in the middle of the last room on the right, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been in this room once or twice before, to bring a birthday gift when no one realized the girl who resided here had managed to stay alive for another whole year, or to offer advice during a particularly difficult assignment.

He'd sat in that chair next to the desk, facing Esmeralda who'd sat, always, just across from him on the bed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her eyes always, always locked on his. But she wasn't sitting now, and neither was he. In fact, she wasn't here at all. And that was what worried him.

She had been instructed to meet him two hours ago, and had never shown up. If there was one thing constant about Esmeralda, it was her habit of arriving exactly when she was told to, almost to the second. So when the minutes had ticked by, a slow rotation of the big hand on the clock, he'd felt something settle uncomfortably in his stomach. The walk down to her dorm room had been a long one, and he'd deliberately kept a slow pace. She'd been working hard, he told himself, and she was, despite everything, still a teenage girl. Perhaps she'd fallen asleep, or lost track of the time.

But even as the possibilities ran through his head, he rejected them. So he'd reached her door, the initials E.M. carved clearly into a small metal plaque the only thing that let anyone know someone even resided in this particular dorm room. And then he'd stopped, bent down and picked up the clear piece of fishing line, less than two inches long, a bit of two sided tape attached to either end. That was the first time he'd felt his heart skip a beat, and he'd cursed under his breath, holding the bit of string in the palm of his hand.

She taped this across the door, he knew, every time she left the room. Some might call it paranoid, but in the Academy it was simply known as cautious. If the string was on the floor, that meant someone had opened the door-the locked door-without realizing it was there. With a quiet oath, he twisted the knob, found the door unlocked, and stepped inside the room.

Nothing was disturbed in here, not a sheet of paper out of place. But the window was closed, and for as long as he'd known her, she always left it open throughout the day. A quick check showed that none of her clothes or luggage was missing, her bed was neatly made and everything exactly as it always was. She didn't have much, and never had. He'd never known her to keep a single memento or pointless knickknack. It was, in a way, lonely. But that wasn't his concern. He could find no trace of anything else out of the ordinary, nothing out of place.

But as he walked over to the window, he spotted, though it was a faint thing, a smudged fingerprint on the glass of the window pane. When he realized it was on the outside of the glass, he blew out a breath, took a step back as he glance once more around the room. Without a word, he turned on his heel, walking out of the room again and shutting the door with a quiet click.

His footsteps echoed in the halls as he made his way to the Headmistress' office, and his eyes were dark as he slipped inside and locked his gaze with Cameron's mother.

"Rachel, we have a problem."


	10. Chapter 10

Sam glanced up as the faint sound of a screeching siren echoed throughout the school, and he chuckled, pausing as he rifled through a stack of pictures that he'd found in a box.

"Well, would you look at that? Looks like somebody noticed you were missing already. What, is the school going on lockdown or something?" He asked, thoroughly amused, and she said nothing, and twisting her wrists in the bonds again, turning on her side a bit as much as she could manage.

"I have to tell you, Zeldie, I haven't had this much fun on the job in ages. You and me, we'll have a blast. What do you think? You wanna be my partner, sweetheart?" He asked, raising a brow as he watched her practically contort herself on the table. She paused, however, at his use of such an annoying endearment, and raised a brow, her eyes steady on his.

"I am not your 'sweetheart,' nor do I intend on ever being your partner. If you must address me, call me by my given name." She spoke coolly, princess to pauper, and he smirked, setting the pictures aside to lean back in the chair again, balancing on the back legs.

"All right then. Tell me honey, which one should I use? Thomasina Rinaldi? Julianna Harris? Olivia Dorset? Or let's see, maybe Suzanna, Natasha, Amelia, Madeline? You've gone by many names, sweetheart." He said, rolling his eyes as she twisted her wrists again, moving her body so her hair fell free over her arms and the table, a straight fall of black that curled slightly at the ends.

"Any of them will do if you want to pick one. Just refrain from using those foolish endearments." She said, letting her body relax and settle down flat on the table again. She almost, almost had it. A few more minutes, and practically dislocating some vital bones would be worth it.

"Did you know you talk like an old woman, Suzie Q? And you keep moving around like that, you're going to flip the table. Not that that wouldn't be funny as hell, but I don't see you having very much fun when your face hits concrete." He remarked, and when something he couldn't read flashed in her eyes, he barely had time to curse before she twisted her body sharply. Sure enough, the momentum she built up had the table rocking, and then flipping onto its side with an ominous creak that almost had Sam toppling out of his chair.

"God damn it, Esmeralda, I told you." The table had rolled so that Esmeralda was under it, nothing but her fingers and feet visible on either end of it. Cursing her, he bent down to flip the table over again, and didn't have time to register the fact that her hands were no longer sticking out from the end of the table before he felt his feet pulled out from under him.

He saw stars when his head slammed into the floor, and didn't know what hit him when Esmeralda sprung on him, her ankles still tied to the table, the ropes from her wrists sawed free. It took him a moment to remember how to move, and by then she was clawing at him, using her now-free hands to pummel him.

"Shit!" He grabbed his wrists, but it wasn't exactly to push off a female who also happened to be attached to a table. He tasted blood when her fist connected with his jaw, and barely managed to shift away in time to avoid taking a hard blow to the most vulnerable part of his anatomy. She did, however, manage to plow a fist into his shoulder, and for some reason he felt something pierce his flesh, drawing blood. Somehow her elbow connected with his ribs at the same time, and he feared deeply for his internal organs before he managed to lift a leg, connecting his foot with her stomach and kicking back as hard as he could.

Despite himself, he winced when he saw her head connect with first the table, and then the concrete floor, and in different circumstances he might have admired the way she dragged herself up again-as best she could with her ankles attached to what was turning out to be a very sturdy table. But in this case, he went with straight instinct and drew out the knife he'd taken from her earlier.

This time it was he who sprang at her, pouncing on her back and holding the knife to her throat as he had once before. She stopped thrashing beneath him when she felt the blade against her jugular, and, with his breath heavy-almost panting-he dragged her hands behind her back.

"How in the hell did you…well, damn." He scowled fiercely at what he'd assumed to be pinky rings, but was apparently-once you popped the stones out-tiny, razor-sharp blades. No wonder she'd been twisting around so much, he thought, and shook his head in disgust. Muttering under his breath and spitting out a bit of blood, he wrenched the rings off her fingers, and-just in case-ripped the necklace from around her neck.

He hadn't thought she'd be armed with such things when walking around her own school. Obviously he'd miscalculated, and it wasn't something he planned on doing again-not if he wanted to stay alive, that is. His face stung where her nails had dug in-though he supposed her should be grateful it had been her nails and not her blades-and he was going to be limping for quite a while if the throbbing in his knee was any indication.

"You're a damned beast, aren't you? No one told me you fought like a lunatic." Gritting his teeth, he pressed her back up against the table, used a burst of annoyed strength to maneuver the table-crazy girl and all-back up onto its legs. Reaching over, he grabbed the pile of rope he'd left close at hand-just in case-and went to work tying her wrists-tighter than was probably necessary-back down to the table. As an added measure, he took another few lengths of rope and tied down her legs, waist, and shoulders, until she was bound up more than a lunatic in a straight jacket. All the while she glared at him mutinously, and his scowl only deepened when he saw the giant bump in the middle of her forehead, the bloody gashes on her cheeks and jaw.

"I told you you'd slam your face into the concrete if you flipped the table. Don't you ever listen?" He demanded irritably, and used his thumb to brush away a little trail of blood that had run down her cheek. There was a giant bruise, already darkening to a deep purple, on her left temple that spread down to her ear, and it pissed him off that seeing her face bruised had his stomach twisting a bit. Not at all a comfortable sensation, he thought, and wiped blood off his own face with his hand, muttering under his breath about annoying, hard headed hellcats.

"You know what? I take it back. We won't be partners. We'll just keep you in a damned cage until you learn how to behave. You can be Creed's pet. How's that sound, sweetheart?" He snapped, and wasn't surprised when she didn't answer, merely studied the ceiling as the lockdown siren faded away, merely an echo in the otherwise silent chamber.


	11. Chapter 11

The Academy was in total lockdown. No one got in, no one got out, no exceptions. Every member of the staff was searching the estate inch by inch, searching for a clue as to the whereabouts of the resident Ghost. The students weren't much of a help, despite their training, seeing as during all this time they hadn't even realized that The Ghost was one of their classmates.

Back in Esmeralda's room again, Joe Solomon and the Headmistress were searching her room again, looking for something, anything at all. In frustration, Rachel dumped out a small box of hair clips, found six bobby pins with mini detonators on the ends, perfect for blowing out locks.

"…You trained your student well, Joe. Somebody could search this room for hours and never know a damned thing about the person who lived in it. There's no life in here." She said with a sigh, replacing the pins and putting the box back on the vanity table. As she did so, Mr. Solomon rummaged through the closet, his gaze taking in everything.

"You've seen her record, Rachel. She's an exceptional agent. But she has more life inside her than this room shows. She's a Ghost Operative, so where's her memory box?" He demanded, and Rachel lifted a brow, wondering absently if they'd get any luck with that smudged partial print on the window pane.

"Having something like that is against protocol. Surely you taught her that." He shook his head impatiently, pushing aside a row of shirts to reach the back of the closet.

"Yes, of course, but most every G.O. has one somewhere. They'd be her visual memory aids for the information files in her head. Not once have I ever seen what she does with the items she retrieves for extra credit. And then there's this." He pulled a box out of the closet, angled it so Rachel could see inside. In the simple cardboard box were about a dozen disposable cameras.

"If she doesn't have a memory box, she wouldn't have all the cameras for the visual aid pictures. So where is it? Where's her box?" He demanded, not expecting an answer. It was possible, quite possible that something from that memory box, a picture of a face, a place, anything, could lead them to where she was. He didn't believe, not for a second, that she'd taken off on her own. Esmeralda Medinas was loyal right down to the bone marrow. If she'd left, it hadn't been willingly.

Setting the box of cameras on the bed, he looked in the closet again, and was reminded of just how much his star pupil blended in. There were exactly three school uniforms hanging neatly, three pairs of flats in clear plastic containers. Hanging from hooks were three black hats, and on a shelf, folded neatly, were two pairs of black pants and two black tee shirts. That meant, seeing as he knew Esmeralda would've been dressed for a mission, that she was currently-or at least had been-wearing black pants and a black tee shirt. Not that that meant much, but it was a solid fact that he could grasp for the moment.

"Now that is a very dull wardrobe, Joseph. She has your fashion sense, then." Rachel remarked, peeking over his shoulder into the closet, and he shook his head, pushing aside the uniforms to the row of shelves on the right hand side of the closet.

"When she needs something else to wear, she finds something in the school wardrobe room that will suit. She knows how to do her job, Rachel." He said mildly, automatically defending his student.

"I don't doubt her, Joe. I was simply making an observation. I must confess, I mostly left her training in your hands. I got her progress reports, of course, but beyond that…She must be quite skilled, for me to have not registered her existence. You did a good job with her, Joe. So she won't be easy to beat, or to hold onto if someone has indeed taken her from school grounds. We'll get her back."

Mr. Solomon didn't reply, merely nodding once before he shut the closet door, moving on to search under the bed. Never knowing that a hundred feet below him, deep in the school's foundation, the student who slept in the bed she was searching was tied to a table while a strange man rifled through the memories she wasn't supposed to have.


	12. Chapter 12

Esmeralda, much to Sam's frustration, gave every impression of being asleep, as though she spent every other Thursday tied down to a table in a secret room beneath the school. Hell, for all he knew, she did. But he highly doubted it. She was a cool one, no doubt about that. He'd been unable to shake her, unable to extract any information she hadn't wanted to give him. And Lord, she knew how to push his buttons, with her cool eyes and blank expression.

And then, he thought, there was the guts factor. The girl sure had some guts, and no one could call her a wimp. It still gave him a moment's pause whenever he glanced over and saw her face all banged up and bruised, and early childhood lessons about never hitting a girl tried to surface and guilt him. But those lessons were forced back and replaced with training. But he had a feeling none of his training had ever prepared him for dealing with the likes of Esmeralda Medinas.

She was a puzzle all right, and one that, under different circumstances, he might've enjoyed solving. For as long as he could remember, it had been said that the mystical blood of the gypsies had run through The Ghost's veins, aiding their undetected journeys throughout the continents. And now, looking at her, he could see that rumor had some things right. There was certainly more than a little bit of gypsy in this girl, with her big, dark eyes and tanned skin, with her curling black hair and hypnotic voice. Her…He cut himself off abruptly, scowling as he paced the little room. He had no business thinking of her as anything more than a recruit, an object to be brought in. Thinking of her as a beautiful girl with smoky, exotic eyes and a mass of tumbling curls was highly unprofessional.

To distract himself, he flipped through the piles upon piles of pictures he'd found stored in boxes, searching idly through the various random objects placed throughout the room. There were strings of beads, rusted coins and bits of twine, marbles and what he thought might be a shrunken head. Pushing aside a small pile of tumbling stones, he raised a brow at the Raggedy Anne and Raggedy Andy dolls he found sitting side by side at the very back of a shelf, their stitched on smiles eerily out of place amidst the dark corners and cobwebs. Absently he reached out, ran a fingertip over Anne's straggly red hair, and imagined Esmeralda holding this, perhaps as a child, perhaps on a mission, holding it in her slim hands and grinning down at the cloth face.

Shaking his head, he turned to another shelf, drew down a stack of pictures that wasn't inside a box. Carrying them over to the chair he'd been sitting in, he sat, began to flip through them. He took pause, however, when he realized that, unlike in all the others, Esmeralda was actually shown in these, smiling for the camera. Frowning, he looked at them more carefully, and realized she was young, no older than eight or so, her eyes alight with laughter and humor. Here she was hanging upside down from a tree, her face filled with mischief, her upside down grin a mile wide. And there she was, caught up in the arms of a man who looked so much like her that he had to be her father. She had his eyes, he thought, his big, fascinating eyes. And another picture revealed the mother, and Sam saw where Esmeralda got her hair and also, he assumed as Esmeralda had yet to actually smile at him, her grin.

Though a part of him registered the cruelty of it, too much of his mind had been trained to find and make full use of any weakness one found in an enemy. And he'd yet to find a person who didn't have a weakness when it came to their family. With a determined gleam in his eye, his lips curved into a smirk, he stood up, stepped towards Esmeralda.

That step almost faltered when she opened her eyes, looked directly into his in that cool, blank way she had. Because she did, and because she didn't seem to be the least concerned, his smirk deepened, and he stopped right beside her, bending down so his face was inches from hers.

"You know, Zeldie, my love, I found the strangest picture while I was exploring your little play room. I was under the impression that Ghost Operatives weren't supposed to keep up any connections with relatives…especially parents." He held the picture in front of her face, feeling smugly superior when she raised a brow, studying the image.

"Now Zeldie, it sure would be unfortunate if anything were to happen to these two nice people, don't you think? You join up with us, and there's no doubt they'd be protected. Otherwise…Tragic accidents happen every day, you know." He said, his tone deliberately mocking, deliberately cold and calculating. She merely studied the picture for a moment more, shrugged, and then met his gaze directly.

"Well," She said slowly, in a weary, slightly annoyed voice that had him tasting victory. "It's pretty hard for a couple of dead people to die again in 'tragic accidents'. You're about five days too late to threaten me with that one. Nice try, though."

And just like that, victory was snatched away. Not only that, but for reasons he refused to dig in to, he felt like a complete asshole. This was not turning out at all the way it was supposed to.


	13. Chapter 13

"Ooh, what do we have here? Little Esmeralda has some split personality problems, I see." Already used to being ignored, Sam carried the little box back to his chair, wiggled his eyebrows at her as she glanced blankly around the room.

Inside the box, stacked up one after the other, were various passports and IDs, legal documents that turned her from Esmeralda Medinas to Thomasina Rinaldi, Julianna Harris, Olivia Dorset, Suzanna Moyer, Natasha Koldari, Amelia Summers, Madeline Benson, and so many more. He saw her smiling face, over and over, as so many different people. She'd been Bailey, Gabriella, Isabella, Layla, and Riana. She'd walked through Italy as Serafina, through Spain as Elena. She'd slipped through Ireland bearing the name Darcy, through France as Genevieve. She'd traveled the world, had seen all the seven wonders, if the pictures tacked to the walls were any indication.

It was a little eerie, seeing her staring at him, over and over again, in those grainy ID pictures, her lips curved in a cool smile, her eyes staring straight ahead, so big and serious. So many people, in just a few years, he thought. So many names she'd carried; so many temporary lives, all leading back to one teenage girl with a habit of going invisible. It was, in his mind, fascinating.

"So, are the Spanish Steps as awesome as they look in all the documentaries?" He asked, looking up from the photo ID of one Elena Vasquez. He watched her blink, turn her focus back to him.

"Come again?" She asked, raising a brow, and he almost chuckled at her sleepy expression. A quick glance at his watch told him that they'd reached three in the morning a few minutes ago.

"The Spanish Steps. What do they look like?" He asked, and watched the blank confusion enter her eyes. Her brow furrowed, as did his as he looked at her obvious confusion.

"The Spanish Steps? They're…impressive, I suppose. I've never been there, so I can't really say." She wished she could stretch, wished, as fatigue set in, that she could at least shift onto her stomach so she could sleep comfortably.

Sam merely stared at her, his eyes narrowed. She wasn't lying, or playing dumb. Not that he could tell, anyway. Besides, there was really no point to lie about such a thing when he had the fake IDs and passports right here to tell him where she'd been and when. He paused for a moment, and then walked around the room, plucked a picture from the wall. It was a grainy picture of the Spanish Steps, taken mere feet from them.

Walking over to the table where Esmeralda was tied down, he held the picture in front of her face, waiting until she focused on it. He saw the moment recognition flared, could almost see the information streaming in her eyes as her brain kicked into overdrive.

This, he thought with some envy, was the wonder of the Ghost Operative. Information just stored away, hidden even from themselves, until visual aids triggered an explosion of mental files. There was power in those dark eyes now, and a knowledge he could only guess at. It was, he discovered, so very captivating.

"The Spanish Steps," She murmured, and would've reached for the picture, just to touch, if the ropes hadn't stopped her.

"Yes, they're magnificent. They're…majestic, in their own way. They stood the test of time." Her voice had softened for a moment, before she caught herself, before those eyes went blank and cool again, before the light left them.

"You should take some time off from Creed, see the sights. You don't live forever."

Aaaaaaaaand, she's back, he thought with a sigh, and lowered the picture. He was a master at killing time, and God knew he'd have to kill quite a bit of time down here until he figured out how exactly he was going to get her off school grounds unnoticed. Not that he'd ever admit that he hadn't exactly figured that out before hand, of course.


	14. Chapter 14

"Man, it feels so good to stretch! Don't you think so, Zeldie?" Refreshed after a quick power nap, Sam glanced over at the table in the center of the room, was met with Esmeralda's deadpan stare. She was pissed at him, no question. Beyond pissed, really. As though he hadn't been a courteous host the past four days.

Four days down in the cold, dimly lit little room. Four days of sarcasm, threats, and the occasional peeing in a bottle that they silently agreed to never speak about. She'd been smart about the whole thing, he mused. When he'd offered water, she'd drank. When he'd offered food, she'd eaten. Not much on conversation, but he could see her mind racing every time he put a picture in front of her face.

It wasn't as though he'd been idle during the past ninety six hours. He'd considered and rejected countless escape plans, cursed the lack of cell phone service down in their hideout at least a dozen times a day. But mostly…mostly he'd been taking pictures. Armed with a tiny digital camera, he'd begun taking hundreds of pictures. Thousands. Some of her, of course. He'd need proof to send back to his superiors that The Ghost was indeed in his grasp. But mostly he took pictures of her pictures. It was impossible for him to take every picture she had with him. There were simply far, far too many. But with a digital camera, there wouldn't be a need to bring along any extra cargo.

He spent hours upon hours snapping pictures of her pictures, one at a time. When he was finally done with those he took pictures of her souvenirs, of her passports and documents. They'd be unusable after this, of course. The Academy would only attempt to use her aliases to track her. But they could be used to find out what sort of traveling she'd done in the past. It had given him a quick little thrill to find a last, more recent stack of pictures and find his face in the middle of them. Mardi Gras, he thought with a quick grin, and remembered the instant she'd lifted the camera and taken the shot. A smooth, calm gesture. He'd had to admire her guts then, too.

But now the pictures had been taken, the food was almost gone, and he was getting antsy. He wasn't used to staying in one place either. Or being stared at all the time. And she was always, always staring. He had a fleeting, resentful thought that she was likely filing away every last detail about him, right down to the size of his shoes. Sometimes, when she annoyed him enough, he stared right back. And boy, did that piss her off. Not used to being seen, he mused, used to being part of the background, nonexistent. It was ridiculously amusing watching her eyes flare with annoyance as she held direct eye contact rather than let herself look away. Many an hour had been passed with staring contests. He found it much more fun than she.

Knowing he was running out of time, Sam kicked back a bit in his chair, reached out for the duffle bag he'd brought with him. Beyond the survival essentials, he'd brought along a few tools he thought might be necessary. Toys, really, the kind usually reserved for spy movies. He always got a kick out of them. Mindlessly, he plucked a ring out of the bag, rolled it between his fingers. The gem popped out, much as the ones on Esmeralda's rings had, but rather than blades, this one had a tiny little injection needle at the end. A bit of pressure, and whoever was on the receiving end was going to be taking a sudden three hour nap. A handy tool for knocking out guards in your way, but useless against a school full of spies. It would have been easier, so much easier to get back out if he hadn't had the extra cargo. Human cargo was invariably noisy, difficult, and not prone to laying quietly while you carted them out of their safety zone.

He'd just started to toss the ring back in the bag when he had an idea. His eyes lighting up, he straightened, dropped his chair back on all fours as he palmed the ring, stared down at it as the gears in his brain began to spin. _Conscious_ human cargo was noisy and difficult. _Sleeping_ human cargo, on the other hand…Slipping the ring casually onto his finger, Sam looked over, saw that Esmeralda was staring idly up at the tiny boat hanging from the ceiling. A glance at his watch showed him it was about an hour until sundown. Enough time, he mused, to pack up what needed packing. The thought of fresh air was enough to make him grin like a fool.


	15. Chapter 15

"Love of God, woman, what do you eat?!" Panting just a bit, Sam hunched over, his hands on his knees as he stared out into the darkness, watching for any movement, for the blip of a security camera. The oversized duffle bag strapped across his back was now carrying much more than a few spy toys. For a skinny woman, she sure was heavy. He was damned certain it must be all muscle. Five and a half feet and one hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight. He could have cheerfully strangled her.

Knocking her out had been the easy part. A quick prick on her upper arm, a minute for her to strain against the ropes and curse at him, and then she'd been out for the count. It hadn't even been that hard to drag her off the table, and it had taken him less than twenty minutes to empty the duffle bag and figure out how to stuff her inside of it. She had some cramped quarters at the moment, of course, but he figured it didn't matter much seeing as she wasn't awake to complain. What he hadn't been able to stuff back in the bag with her, he'd zipped into its pockets, stuffed toys and gadgets in his jacket and pants, making sure he left nothing of his behind. If they ever managed to find the secret room, Sam sure as hell wasn't going to leave any clues behind for them to follow.

Pressed up against the side of the school, Sam stared at the looming front gates at the other end of the long driveway, drew a slim metal object out of his pocket. Though it resembled a miniature MP3 player, its purpose was much more practical. With the push of a button, the device shot out a thin red laser, scanning the area between him and the gate for security measures. As it detected the various cameras and defensive technology, a red light blink once, twice, three times, before changing to a quick green. A thirty second timer began a countdown.

Thirty seconds. That was how long the little gadget had managed to jam the security. He took off at a dead run, cursing with every breath at the weight on his back. She was going on a diet, first thing. Nothing but bread and water. No, bread had too many carbs. Just water then. Nothing but water for her from this point on. Waiting for the moment that a guard would come along and stop him, Sam didn't allow his feet to slow, barely glancing down at the tiny gadget as the time ticked down. With the locks disengaged on the front gate, he swung through them with four seconds to spare. Even as he shut the gate again, ducked around the corner, he heard the faint hum of a security system rebooting, the faint beeping that signaled the security had been tampered with. Had to hurry now, he thought. Had to hurry before the troops woke up.

Relying on mental maps, he navigated the maze of streets, avoiding well lit streets. Ten minutes after he'd made it out of the gate, he slowed down to a brisk walk, catching his breath as he rolled his shoulders beneath the duffle bag straps. She had it easy, he thought bitterly. Got a free ride out of the deal and everything. Scowling, annoyed, he swung into an alley, walked over to a pile of rotting cardboard boxes and mangled tarps. Tossing and kicking them all to the side, he offered a grin to the sleek silver motorcycle that he'd hidden when he'd first made it into town. In the dim light, he could just make out the security clamps he'd attached to it that had fastened the bike securely to the brick wall, just in case. Taking a key ring out of his pocket, he pushed a button on the key, grinned as the security clamps detached from the wall, slid back into the bike and disappeared behind shining chrome.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you." Caressing the seat, Sam swung a leg over, settled down on the seat, rolled his shoulders in relief as the majority of Esmeralda's weight settled behind him. He was pretty sure she was right side up. A pity she wouldn't be awake to appreciate the smooth ride a well-maintained motorcycle could provide. Starting it up, he listened appreciatively to the quiet purr of the engine. Unlike other bikes, this one was designed to be all but silent. It came in handy in his line of work. As the lights popped on, he drove out of the alley, briefly considered his travel plans before he was moving quickly, quietly through the streets. Within half an hour, he was on the highway and speeding south. He wondered how the little gypsy would like South Carolina.


End file.
